Zachariah 21: Ghosts
London, England
December 24, 1843
The girl’s eyes leaving Zachariah’s face, her head lowering, the girl looked down to the tray that hung from the biting twine held about her neck — to the one remaining rose, to the blood red rose with the broken stem.
Forcing his eyes from their emaciated faces, Zachariah looked at the flower also…
As he looked, separating, the wilted rose broke from its stem and seemingly floating on air, slowly fell to the ground.
Shuddering! Not knowing what to do and wanting, ‘very badly’, to be gone from these two, turning away Zachariah began to walk…
One pace… Feeling the now familiar sensation of the children’s eyes piercing his back.
Two paces…
Three paces… Wind. He felt cold wind.
Four paces… Cold. With each step the boy became colder.
Six paces...
Seven paces… Harder. Lifting leaves and small twigs, the wind blew harder.
Eight paces...
Nine paces… The sky becoming blacker by the second, the moon near gone and the brightest star barely visible.
Ten paces...
Gnawing!
He felt a gnawing in his…? Mind? A gnawing in his…? Heart.
Eleven paces…Compelled! He knew what he ‘had’ to do… He knew what he ‘must’ do!
Stopping. Standing perfectly still, looking upward, speaking to the black sky. “It ain’t fair!” Imploring, looking for a reason not to do what he knew he must. What he felt compelled to do.
Holding his arms skyward, Zachariah felt the weight of his treasure, the weight of the candy held in his hand.
“It ain’t fair!” the boy called to whatever God it was that watched over a boy so lowly as himself.
“What ‘ave I got? He called to the black sky. Thinking, I ain’t got nothin’ neither! What ‘ave I got!
An answer coming…
From out the mind of a not yet nine year old boy came a succession of thoughts: Mr. Archibald’s crinkly smile and his offer of a kitten; the friendship of Marco, the fishmonger; the touches and warmth and—not cognoscente of the possible power of prayer — and of the prayers of the many people he’d encountered on this day and night. And most of all, ‘this’ coming before all else: Seeing the lady’s face before him, Zachariah now knew, now remembered the face of his mother.
His shoulders slumping in defeat.
Feeling a stirring in his pocket and stretching his finger within he scratched the mouse’s head… “An’ Mousy! I got you, too, Mousy!”
His shoulders lifting with resolution. Straightening his back, Zachariah turned around.
As before. Standing directly before him, the frigid wind fluttering the tatters of their clothing, the flower girl and boy remained, their deep-set beseeching eyes penetrating the sphere of his conscience .
Zachariah stood before the two gaunt, hollow-eyed children.
Lifting her hand from the boy’s shoulder, the girl held her arm forward.
Conscience dictating, Zachariah placed his candy—his treasure onto the girl’s outstretched hand and found, though forced, he could, he did smile.
Silent! Neither boy or girl smiled in return.
Feeling it’s loss and the weight of his sacrifice within his mind, within his soul. Turning, Zachariah began to walk.
Two paces… three paces. Turning back, “A good Chris…”
‘Vanished’!
Hearing a ‘crinkling’ sound. Looking to where the children had been — on the ground there was the white square of confectioner's paper that had been formed to hold Zachariah’s treasure.
Rustling in the wind, the boy watched as the square of paper lifted skyward and...
‘Disappeared’!
All that remained within Zachariah's sight and within Zachariah's mind was the darkness of this haunted night and the loss of his treasure.
The meaning of his sacrifice to this nearer nine than eight year old boy no longer apparent.
“Why’d I do that?” Looking for what was no longer there. Lifting his hand, Zachariah held it in front of his eyes. Turning his hand, opening and closing his fist, unable to believe it was empty, that he’d, “Why’d I give it away?”
The further he went from ‘The Confection Shop’, the closer he came to the shack, and the closer he came to the shack, with each ensuing step his emotions reversed.
As though a heavenly shade had been drawn, the moon and stars were extinct and the sky black as pitch.
Cutting through his meager, thread-bare clothing, the blowing wind hurtled wet, stinging snow onto his face.
Holding the top hat tight upon his head with one hand as, trying to protect Mousy from the wind, he covered his pocket with the other hand as, at the same time he attempted to keep the two sides of the long-coat closed about his throat with pressure from the underside of his forearm.
Squinting into the wind. Holding the hat. Holding the coat. Protecting the mouse. “The sweets...” he shouted into the night “...the sweets were mine!”
Hungry. So hungry! The food he’d eaten at the lady’s home earlier in the day long forgotten. The one sustenance needed—wanted, above all else—the candy.
‘His candy’!
Still unable to believe that he had actually given his treasure away, releasing the hat, the boy once again held his empty hand before his face.
Free of all restraint the forceful wind tugged at the hat. Grabbing it, shoving it over his ears and as low on his forehead as the bump would allow, shivering, Zachariah tightened his hold on the collar of the coat.
The cobblestone street ended.
The boy was now on the dirt road that would soon bring him home… Bring him to the shack… Bring him to Johnson!
Once again: “Why’d I do that?” he shouted into the wind. “It were mine, not theirs! So they’re poor! Well I’m poor, too, an’ no one’s never given me candy afore!” Kicking a rock, stubbing his toe, he hobbled a few steps. “An’ now I ain’t got nothin’!”
A stinging, snow-driving blast of frigid wind forced tears from the corners of his eyes.
Tightening his grip on the hat, Zachariah pulled the collar of his coat even tighter.
The illusion of well being ‘completely’ gone, completely forgotten, remembering, ‘obbins, ya ol’ skinflint, bastard!
The ‘quipment!
The boy’s anger for giving his treasure away now replaced by cold fear.
Closer to the shack!
Closer to Johnson!
“Lordy!”
Almost there!
“Maybe...” Zachariah said to Mousy “… ‘e’s not ‘ome yet. Maybe ‘e’s drunk an’ passed out in a pub an’ tomorrow, when ‘e gets ‘ome…” he hoped “… ‘e won’t feel so bad an’ ‘e won’t be so mad.”
“Lordy!”
There it was! The little boy saw its squat, dim outline in the darkness…
The shack.
His pace slowing.
All else forgotten: The two starving children, the candy, the cold, his anger and hunger—all was forgotten.
‘Fear’. All else replaced with fear.
Approaching, his pace slowed even further.
The boy hesitated at the door.
His hand reached for the latch, came away… reached again.
Slowly. Quietly. As quietly as possible, Zachariah opened the door an inch… another… a few inches.
Leaning his head through the narrow opening, he peered inside. Then squeezing between the door-frame and door…
His lips moving silently, “Lordy! Oh, Lordy!”
Johnson ‘was’ home.
Sitting behind the table in front of the fireplace, sprawled upon a straight-back chair, his neck bent to the rear, his head hanging over the back of the chair, his mouth fully open, Johnson was snoring.
His legs spread from side to side, one hand hung limply towards the floor. In his other hand, held on his lap, was a half empty bottle of gin.
A poorly made fire smoldered in the fireplace.
Upon the mantel were two flickering candles and an unopened bottle of gin.
On the table, with a knife sticking through the middle, was a partially eaten loaf of bread, another candle and… “Lordy!” …lying on its side, another gin bottle… An empty gin bottle.
The boy took one step into the room… Another… Then, with as little sound as possible, closing the door behind him, holding the latch, hardly breathing, standing perfectly still, hoping, Oh, Lordy! he silently prayed that Johnson would not awaken, but…
The rumbling of his stomach, in his mind, echoed throughout the shack and, afraid the sound might wake Johnson, covering his middle, pressing his forearm hard against his stomach, the boy thought, If I can just get a piece’ a that bread an’ get into bed afore ‘e wakes.
He took one small, tentative step toward the table. Then thinking he’d rather be hungry then beaten, turned to the far side of the room, to his pallet.
One step…
Two steps…
A sputter and crackle as an overhanging bit of log burned through and fell off the grate.
Another step...
Snoring…
Snorting loudly, choking on a bit of spittle, coughing, Johnson lifted his head, opened his eyes, closed his eyes then — as though the effort of holding his head upright was far too great, letting the back of his head drop over the back of the chair once again, the man returned to his drunken slumber.
Zachariah waited one… two… three… four heartbeats before taking another silent step…
A floorboard creaked loudly and stopping in mid-step, his right foot inches from the floor, the boy did not breathe.
Johnson stirred…
His head lifting off the back of the chair, momentarily held upright, then slumped onto his chest.
Waiting…
Standing perfectly still the boy waited until hearing Johnson snore again, then, on the tips of his toes took one step, another and…
The rough-hewn wood floor creaked again, and Johnson raised his head from his chest.
Heart pounding, not breathing… his is left foot poised above the floor, the boy stood still.
Johnson stared into the fire. He yawned. He coughed. He closed his eyes…
He opened his eyes and lifting the bottle to his mouth, took a long, gurgling swallow.
Catching on his lips, the suction of the bottle popped when pulled from his mouth.
Still… Still…
Standing perfectly still, Don’t turn! The boy prayed silently. Lordy, please don’t let him turn!
Johnson turned…
Looking at the boy while trying to focus his vision. “Uh…” his words slow and slurred “...I been waitin’ on ya!”
He stared at the boy a moment, then took another long, lip-popping swig from the bottle.
Knowing the drunker he was, the worse it was going to be, the boy’s eyes followed the bottle’s trip from the man’s lap to his mouth… and back to his lap.
Belligerently: “ ‘Where ya been’?”
Waiting a moment for an answer…
Receiving none. Awkwardly pulling himself from the chair, Johnson swayed backwards a moment before, holding onto the chair, clumsily straightened his stance.
Planting the base of the bottle on the table. Leaning onto the table, supporting himself by the knuckles of one fist — with the throat of the bottle held tightly in the other. ‘Where-ya-been’?” Johnson repeated menacingly.
“I, uh, lost me way.”
“Imbecile!”
Stumbling around the table. Attempting to intimidate the boy—which he most certainly did—standing directly before and above him, “Me money!” Johnson demanded, holding his hand forward.
The boy did not move.
“I says, ‘me money,’ if ya please!”
His mouth suddenly dry, Zachariah could not speak.
“Boy, I says to ya once more...” bending forward, speaking directly into his face, bringing his fisted hand under Zachariah’s nose “ ‘gi’me’ me money’!”
The boy could not move.
Next: Zechariah 22: The Stranger
